details come slowly. Yet they are mostly about what she is not.
Not beautiful.
Not frightened.
Not sure of where she is going.
And because he is an intruder here himself, Calan MacKay does not interfere. He marks her progress, sensing the force of emotion that drives her over the damp grass to a gray boulder above the great sweep of the abbey’s west meadow. From here every detail of motion along the driveway is visible.
But at three in the morning, there is no movement. The grand house is empty. He has already checked to be sure. He is alone.
The woman in the black sweater stops suddenly. One hand to the gray rock, she closes her eyes and sinks down. Tears shimmer. Her head touches her open hands.
He smells the salt of her tears then. The scent is physical, painfully intimate, as if he had shared her body in the most primal form of sex. Her tears smell like youth…and sadness.
Ginger and sunshine.
He is stunned at his sudden awareness of a stranger’s body. It has been years since he has felt such sharp curiosity about a woman.
Curiosity turns to something darker.
If things were different, he would make it his goal to taste her passion and her body. He would drive her slowly, making her burn as he suddenly burns. He would hunt and then possess her until his curiosity was slaked.
Something tells him that could take a lifetime.
But he has no lifetime to give. Because Calan MacKay cannot be gentle or trusting, he crushes his desire. She has stirred up emotions he can never afford.
He curses, summoning anger instead. It will be an easy thing to frighten her away. Slow, he moves through the arched rose bower, a shadow amid shadows, making no sound. Almost at her side.
She gives no sign, perched on the rock, eyes intent. Suddenly she sways and pushes to her feet. Her fingers dig furiously at one pocket.
He tenses, no longer a simple observer. She is an intruder on Draycott soil and he plans his direction of attack, the timing of his approach to overpower her.
But the choked sound of her pain is not what he expects. What she pulls from her pocket is not a weapon. Only a folded piece of paper.
Small and fragile, it covers her palm.
He can smell the age caught in its fibers. Salt is locked within faint layers of human sweat, as if the sheet has been carried for years in trembling hands.
Her jaw tightens. She does not have to read the words on the fragile sheet to know their secret. Sliding to her knees, she searches the dark earth. Her eyes are hard with anger as she grips a small stone and hurls it toward the distant house. “Damn you,” she rasps. “Damn all of you.”
She throws another stone, and now he sees the tears spilling down her pale cheeks. He smells the salt of her skin and his body tightens in harsh response. He wants to know her name, her breathless laugh, the heat of her thighs.
He wants to know her body and everything about her.
Reckless wishes. He will never know her.
The tall Scotsman doesn’t move, though every nerve shouts for him to cross the darkness between them. Who is this stranger to hold him, tempt him?
She stands awkwardly, her shoulders tense. No more tears now. Only anger.
She lifts one hand in a fist. “Leave us alone,” she orders hoarsely. “Let it end.”
His curiosity is caught hard now, so he follows when she climbs the hill, hidden when she kneels beneath an ancient oak. She digs with bare fingers and a simple kitchen knife, raking the earth in long lines. He can barely hold himself back when she leans down to the wet earth.
To find what?
She twists suddenly, and her pale face is caught in the moonlight, something from his deepest dreams. Dark eyes glint with tears and fury as she tosses the knife.
It spins high—and lands at his feet.
An accident, or has she sensed his presence after all?
“Gone.” Her harsh whisper drifts on the wind. “Taken like everything else…” She stands, unsteady, one hand white against the ancient tree. With a sigh, she pulls her jacket closed, staring around uncertainly.
And then she turns.
Away from the house. She crosses the dark grass, her shoulders stooped with weariness. Questions storm into his mind as she passes, close enough to touch.
He holds his distance as she crosses the meadow, climbs a small stone fence. From there she winds through the copse that borders the road.
Somewhere in the darkness a car engine coughs.
He draws back. She is still walking when two men emerge from behind a tangle of weeds. They block her scream. Her hands claw and scrape in her struggles.
Anger explodes through him. With their scent like a beacon, he opens to the hunt. But not fast enough.
She fights well, but the men are stonger and they take her just the same. The car motor whines.
Silent and deadly, the Scotsman hunts.
CHAPTER ONE
THEY CAME AT HER without warning. One minute Kiera Morissey had been cursing Draycott Abbey and its arrogant owner, determined to make her visit short so she could be gone forever.
Now she was struggling for her life against violent men in black masks. Her mother’s deathbed request had led her straight into a nightmare.
A rag blocked her mouth, making her gag. Rough hands gripped her wrists, twisting until she moaned. She was supposed to be fighting memories, not violent assailants. Who were these people? What did they want with her?
Security guards? Kiera would have expected the Draycott family to post a team of bad-tempered Neanderthals to guard their precious privacy. But would they condone this kind of violence?
The wind snapped through the trees. Birds exploded over her head as she fought harder. Plastic bonds locked her wrists sharply. She couldn’t see, striking out at her attackers by feel alone. She knew there were two of them, and so far they had said only a few words, all of them in a language that sounded Slavic.
This was a private unit of hired foreign thugs, meant to protect the aristocratic owner of the abbey and his family? Hard to believe, even for the arrogant Draycotts.
She didn’t frighten easily, though she hadn’t been prepared for an attack on a quiet country road in the English countryside.
Now she was focused, ready to fight back. Her father had taught her self-defense as soon as she was big enough to hold a Muy Thai stick and play at kickboxing moves. Yet in her emotion at her first glimpse of Draycott Abbey, she had violated the crucial rule: Always stay prepared.
Now her attackers were going to get a little surprise.
Kiera made the move exactly as her father had taught her. She went completely limp, toppling sideways. Before her beefy captor could adjust to her sudden falling weight in his arms, she snapped forward and kicked him solidly in the groin.
His wheeze of stunned shock told her he had expected fear and blind compliance. No way, dog breath.
The second his hands loosened, she dropped to her knees, rolled and then shot toward the woods. She was in good shape. She also had a five-yard lead on the second attacker. She grabbed the top of the abbey’s stone fence, pulled herself up and threw one leg over.
But her pursuer lunged and managed to grab her ankle just before it cleared the fence. He jerked her backward, her face scraping against the stones. Blood gushed over her lip, but when he tried to shove her down beneath him, she clawed at his eyes, sending him reeling.
Unfortunately